


My Husband, My Enemy

by Eireann



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-26 09:12:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18280139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: The dream of England is crumbling, but there is one sacrifice that can stem the tide.





	1. Alfred

**Author's Note:**

> The Last Kingdom is copyrighted to Carnival Film and Television, and possibly Netflix. No infringement is intended and no money made.

_“In manus tuas, Domine...”_

I am well acquainted with the words of the Holy Mass.  I could recite them in my sleep.  My knowledge of the Gospels, the Psalms and the Holy Offices is almost as thorough, for I study them in every spare moment in the effort to deepen and increase my worthiness for the task to which I have been called, as well as to help me combat the sinful urges to which my body is so often subject.  Though not so much, of course, in these latter days, as the sickness in my bowels gnaws at me ever harder, a punishment perhaps for my human weakness.

The correct words to follow these are, of course, ‘ _commendo spiritum meum’_. ‘Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit’.  But as I make my slow, exhausted way to my bedroom, the last three words transmute themselves inexorably in my head into ‘ _commendo filiam meam._ ’

‘ _Filiam meam_ ’. ‘My daughter’.

Æthelflaed.

Though of course the hope of Wessex lies in young Edward, at last growing strong after a childhood of worrying frailty, it is Æthelflaed who holds my heart.  Her beauty, her intelligence, her gaiety and courage are the lamp of my life.  I cannot remember a time when I had not hoped to be able to hand her over to a husband who would be worthy of her, who would love her as she deserved to be loved, who would value and nurture her.

I excluded Ælswith from the day’s meeting of the Witan.  After long, private sessions with Odda and several other of my senior councillors, I had known in my heart what must be done, and for many reasons I had not wanted my wife to be a party to it.  If, in a corner of my mind, I had still prayed in agony ‘Let this cup pass from me’, I had presented the solution to the kingdom’s peril to the Witan with a face as close to expressionless as I could contrive, and listened to it being debated daylong with the impassivity of a judge.

The peril in which my kingdom stands could hardly be greater.  Mercia – under the control of that young fool Æthelred – has been overrun.  Rumour, as ever, has many tongues as to the Mercian lord’s fate; some say he is a prisoner, others that he has been captured and executed, while others maintain that he has fallen honourably in battle.  Regrettably, there are also tales (which I am inclined to believe) that he disguised himself as a woman and fled when his capital at Tamworth was taken.

The lamps of Christian civilisation are all but extinguished.  They may flicker on for a while longer in the fastnesses of Cornwallum and Wealas, where the stubborn remnants of the Celts still linger, but the almost overwhelming sense of despair tells me that eventually even these must fall.  Britain, it seems, has been abandoned to the grip of the Devil.

The thought is so terrible that my steps fail, and I slump against the wall, groaning in helpless agony.  " _Eli, Eli,_ _lama sabachthani?"_

Even thinking the words as applying to myself is sacrilege.  I make a note to confess it before next attending Holy Mass, and to add a whole day’s fasting to whatever penance I am given.  But no other words could come even close to expressing this nadir of the soul: ‘My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?’

Adding despair (a mortal sin against the Holy Spirit, if not resisted) to the list of things to be confessed and shriven of, I gather myself together.

Now I have to face Ælswith.


	2. Aelswith

“Finish that tomorrow!  Just – go to your room!”

My maid knows better than to argue when her mistress uses that voice. Setting down her end of the altar frontal we have been carefully embroidering, she bobs a quick curtsey and flees.

I scowl.  It is hard to know whether it is best to be alone or to have company when one is so worried.  Edhita is a competent seamstress and a more than adequate embroiderer (otherwise she would never be allowed the honour of working on the frontal), but her powers of conversation are negligible at best, and when she detects the signs of storms on the domestic horizon, she shrinks into herself like a hermit crab into its shell and ventures no more than a ‘No, your Grace’ or ‘Yes, your Grace’ at such times as she cannot avoid making any response at all.

A glance at the horn-paned window shows that the daylight is starting to fade.  It is not dark enough yet for candles to be lit, but there is a greenish cast to the sky, and the light in the room is dimmer than it was half an hour ago.  I dab pettishly at a stitch that is refusing to set correctly, and tell myself that it is folly to go on with such an important work when one no longer has the light to see it properly.  True, I could send for candles, or even (with an eye to economy) a couple of the malodorous dipped reeds that poorer households use perforce.  But I am conscious of the presence of a headache, one that promises to become severe if I persist, and even while I censure myself for weakness I too lay aside needle and thread, and begin carefully folding up the frontal to be stored safely in my work chest until the morrow.

I lay the cloth neatly in the chest, inhaling pleasurably of the perfume of the fresh layer of sweet woodruff inside it. It is fitting that a thing made for the glory of God should smell beautiful as well as look beautiful.

(I will ever after hate the smell of woodruff...)

The sound of the door opening makes me turn sharply.  I could not recall the last time the Witan sat on so long.  Moreover, the fact that my lord husband gently but firmly ordered me not to attend it has set all my nerves jumping; what could possibly be under discussion that he wished me not to hear?

Half a dozen querulous complaints regarding the lateness of the hour and the effect of missed meals on his digestion die on my tongue as I see my husband’s face.

 _What have you done?_ asks my mind.

But he is the King, so, “What is wrong, my Lord?” stumbles from my tongue.

He does not answer immediately.  He comes slowly into the room; slowly, like an old man, with weariness and worse like bruises under his eyes, and his face hollow with grief.

Fear clutches at me.  I seize my crucifix beseechingly.  “O God – Edward!”

“No.  No, my dear.  Edward is safe.”  He makes to pat my arm, but the movement freezes, and he drops his hand uncertainly.

“Then what is it?”

No answer.  He turns aside and almost falls into the chair set ready. 

A flask of watered ale and two goblets are waiting, along with a plate of rye bread and smoked fish, and a bowl of gruel (now cold, but when he is ready to eat I will order it warmed again to make it more palatable).  My hands unsteady with fright, I pour ale and offer it to him; he takes the goblet and stares at it as though he does not know what it is he holds.

“My lord?”

He looks up at me, at that.

“Wessex – must be preserved, my dear,” he says.  “No matter what the cost. It is the last bastion against the darkness.”

I nod, uncomprehending.

“To all intents and purposes, Mercia is lost.  The barbarians have taken everything.  Everything that was once civilised Britain – except Wessex.”

“We shall not surrender,” I say through a dry throat; uttering it more as a prayer than as a statement of fact.

“We shall not.”  He looks down at the goblet.  “But the simple fact is that we are not strong enough to stand alone and survive.  Without Mercia, we are lost.

“Without Mercia – or without an ally.”

“An ally?” My mind reels through potential prospects.  Neither of the British Celtic remnants can or would prevail against the Danes.  That leaves the Picts (unreliable at best, and busy enough defending their own borders) or the Celts from Hibernia; but Hibernia too has been widely raided and occupied by the Danes, and its lords will have other things on their minds than the fate of Wessex.  Further afield, in mainland Europe, the Danes have occupied many if not all of the Frankish kingdoms.  It is hardly possible that likely allies would be found among them–.

A glimmer of the truth springs into my mind, and I step back, putting a hand to my throat almost without will.  “The _Danes?_ ”

“When you are not strong enough to destroy an enemy, you must treat with him.” His voice is leaden.  “I can fight a war I have no hope of winning, or I can negotiate a peace.”

“With _barbarians?_ ” I see him flinch at the shrillness of my voice, and mute it with difficulty; it is not possible he is truly contemplating such a thing!

“I have sent an emissary with terms,” he goes on, as though I have not spoken.  “The taking of Mercia was a costly victory.  The taking of Wessex, if it came to that, would be even more costly.  The Danes do not like losing men.  It may be that they will be willing to bargain.”

I clutch at my crucifix again.  Allying himself with pagans – it is not possible!

“The Witan have agreed,” he continues wearily.  “They know that continued fighting will achieve nothing save more deaths.  Maybe the Danes will feel the same.  At any rate, what is there to lose by asking?”

“We could – we could raise more men – send for mercenaries–!”

“Wife.  We have every man of Wessex who is able to hold a sword, and boys hardly old enough to throw stones at crows.  And mercenaries cost silver and gold, and to hire them takes time.  If we had the time, which we do not, we do not have the wealth.  One thing I have discovered as king is that nothing drains a treasury faster than constant war.” His smile is bitter, weary, without humour.  “You cannot tax people whose menfolk have been too busy fighting to work the fields, whose cattle have been driven off, whose hens and goats have been killed and stolen.  You cannot milk a barren cow.”

Too many bitter words knot my tongue.  Eventually, however, I find some, and fling them at him like stones.  “If our treasury is empty, with what, then, will you bargain?”

Silence.

He will not even look at me.  And then I know.

_Æthelflaed._

“No.” I take a step backward.

“Wessex must be preserved,” he says again, and now he does look up, with the carved-ice face of a king whose mind is made up.

“You would hand her over to a _pagan!_ ” I shout.  Our eldest-born, the best and dearest of our daughters!

“She has been reared to know her duty.”

“Her duty to _God!_ ”

“And to her King.” His hands closing around the arm rests are the only sign of his distress.  “If the Thurgilsons agree, this would be the seal on an alliance with Wessex.  I do not believe it is an offer they can afford to lightly reject.”

An alliance with the Danes!  I fall back and sit on the work-chest, not even noticing the unevenness of its carved surface beneath me.  Truly, it feels as though my knees will no longer hold me up.

“I have sent Uhtred of Bebbanburg as my emissary,” Alfred adds dully.  “He is best able to carry out negotiations with the barbarians.”

“Being one himself!” I flash.  “Was this his idea?  To ruin our daughter, to shame us all?”

“No, it was mine!” Answering fire flares in his eyes.  “To refuse to admit defeat when one is defeated is not courage, it is folly.  I have all Wessex to safeguard, and if by sacrificing my daughter I can do that, is it right that I withhold her?”

“ _Our_ daughter!” It is half way between a sob and a snarl.  “You will hand her over to a pagan, who refuses to acknowledge the Lord God – who will despoil her and abuse her!”

“Danish wives are not serfs.” He speaks through thinned lips; wives should submit to their husbands, and I am trying his patience hard.  “Uhtred informs me that they are allowed to own property and conduct business, and treated with the respect that their place allows.”

“ _Uhtred!_ ” I spit the name.  “I would that we had never known he existed.  He has been a curse to the kingdom!”

“I will not speak with you until you have cooled enough to be reasonable.”  Alfred stands up, and with a sudden surge of panic I realise he is leaving.

“You have told Æthelflaed?” I cry.

He pauses, one hand on the door.  “No.  I will leave her one more night of innocence.”

And then he is gone.


	3. Uhtred

Unsurprisingly, the Danes have occupied Snotengaham.

Less predictably, as I approach bearing the branch of truce, I see that they are fortifying it.  It was already a strong town, and most likely offered considerable resistance.  By the time its new owners have finished with it, it will be much stronger.

They mean to stay.  That much is certain.  And with our losses, there is no hope of unseating them, at least for the foreseeable future.

Victory attracts followers.  The new masters of Mercia have land and silver and slaves to distribute, with the promise of more if they can follow up their conquest of one kingdom with the destruction of another.  Mercia was wealthy, but Wessex is more so.

I may despise Alfred for his Christianity, but I can only, reluctantly, admire his pragmatism.  I have no illusions how hard the decision to offer this alliance must have been for him.  Nor can I argue with his reasoning.  With Mercia gone (and my pig’s arse of a cousin hopefully consigned to Helheim where he belongs), he is impossibly outnumbered.  The only alternative to defeat is to negotiate, using the only bargaining chip remaining.

“Do you think they will honour the truce, Lord?” murmurs my sole companion.

Aldhelm contrived to escape, bringing news to Wintanceaster of the final defeat of the last Mercian army.  He says that he fought until there was no longer any point in fighting.  I believe him, because he was battered and dazed when he arrived, with the look men bear when they have been in peril of their lives; that he abandoned the field and fled does not strike me as dishonourable (though some of the Witan certainly thought so, to judge by their looks), but sensible.  Courage requires risking one’s life, but intelligence forbids throwing it away.

When I first encountered him, he was in the service of my cousin Æthelred.  That fact did not endear him to me, but he has taken service with Alfred now, and he improves on acquaintance.

“We would not have got this far if they did not want to hear what Alfred has to say.” I grin at him, and see his subtle smile break through the strain.  He does not understand Danes, and having escaped once with his life from a battlefield is in no haste to lose it through treachery.  Still, he has much knowledge of the geography of Mercia that I have not, and he has been a useful guide.  Till now, he has therefore taken the lead, but now it is time for me to step forward.  Some men are fighters and some thinkers; Aldhelm would be in his element in matters of policy and strategy, for which I would not have nearly sufficient patience, whereas I can hope to pick a way in relative safety through the rough give-and-take of Danish bargaining.

“Let us hope they are interested in what he has to offer.”  Aldhelm, whose family lands are now among those overrun, had no place in the Witan, so does not know the nature of the bargain I have been sent to propose.  His tone is half way between gloom and desperate hope.  He may find a place for himself if Wessex holds, but if not he will be just one among many left homeless and destitute, or forced to live on in servitude to new Danish masters.

I myself am torn between fear and hope.  If Wessex falls and Alfred dies, I am released from my oath.  Bebbanburg is where it always was, and Ragnar is waiting.  We can gather an army and go north, and my uncle Ælfric will presently be lord of six feet of Northumbrian earth, if I allow him even that much.  I have sworn it.  Bebbanburg is mine – the parchments Beocca salvaged for me set forth that claim, in words that no law-clerk can contest – and one day I will take it back.

_If Alfred dies._

Why should I care whether Alfred lives or dies?  He never used me but unwillingly; never gave me his trust, despite all I have done to earn it.  He owes me his crown, he even owes me his son, but words of thanks would choke him.  Even my oath to him he extorted from me with the threat against Ragnar’s life, caring nothing how much I hated the renewal of my servitude.

Beocca thinks the sun shines out of the king’s arse.  Sometimes I think that I should take Wasp-Sting and use the pommel of it to try to knock some sense into Beocca’s bald ugly head.

The gates ahead of us have been tightly closed, but as we approach they open.  A phalanx of riders emerges.

I suppose it is inevitable that Haesten rides at its head.  Sometimes I think that I should have left him tethered to the steps in Wintanceaster, to be slaughtered like a chained wolf attacked by curs.

“Uhtred.” His eyes are reptilian still.  A complacent smile flickers over his face, making it no more handsome than usual.  “You’re here to ask for terms of surrender.”

“I’m here to talk to the boar’s head, not his arse.”

Some of the escort hide grins.  Haesten’s gaze flicks to Aldhelm; if my companion understands the words and smiles, no green branch will save him.  Fortunately, he either does not understand or has wit enough to pretend he does not.

Inevitably, we will be ordered to dismount and walk the remainder of the way.  I save Haesten both the trouble and the satisfaction of giving that order, and swing down from my horse, bidding Aldhelm do the same.

It is not far.  I entertain the company by remarking on the fine weather and the improvements they have made to Snotangaham’s defences.  Strangely, my civilities appear to be irritating.

“Weapons,” growls Haesten, when we reach what is evidently the Thurgilson brothers’ chosen feast hall – I guess that once upon a time it was a fine Roman building, but fire has destroyed some of it and the roof is a patchwork of broken slates and thatch.  The roadway around it is a sea of rubbish and mud, with straw flung down in the worst places. 

There is a rack for swords, and many are already resting in it.  Warriors’ tempers can be uncertain, and it is unwise to leave temptation to hand.

I draw Wasp-Sting and Serpent-Breath, and place them in it.  Although I have no serious doubt that they will be handed back to me when I leave, and nor do I suspect that the truce will be dishonoured because I do not have them, I do not like having them out of reach.

Aldhelm places his own sword beside mine, and takes a deep breath.  I understand his thoughts: suddenly a green branch seems a frail thing indeed upon which to hang both our lives.

Now for it.


	4. Erik

“Behold! Alfred’s lap-dog has come to whine to us for mercy!”

Sigefrid’s bellow is the signal for all the assembled warriors to burst out laughing.

I do not obey the signal. I remain seated, consciously relaxed, and observe Uhtred with interest.

He does not appear unduly worried by the gibe.  “The same lap-dog who bit your hand off in fair fight, Sigefrid,” he drawls, nodding to where the crude leather protector is strapped to the severed forearm.

My brother does not care for that reminder.  He scowls blackly.

“Perhaps, as an emissary, you would care to state Alfred’s terms,” I cut in before the war of words can escalate.  It is not that I mind the exchange of insults, and I have enough wit to do well in one, but if Sigefrid’s temper is roused he will be obstructive.  I have already succeeded – eventually – in persuading him that there is no harm in listening to whatever the messenger from Wessex has to say, and I am in no mood to have all that hard work wasted and to do again.  If the message is derisory, we simply send the messenger back with a suitable rejoinder.  Given who it is, Sigefrid would be more than happy to arrange this, with Uhtred’s severed sword hand being the response.

To tell the truth, I do not know what Alfred can possibly say that can influence us in any way.  We have Mercia, and we are poised to invade Wessex.  The spring has been long and wet, and we are waiting for better campaigning weather and for reinforcements from the east.  When we have both, we will move.

And Wessex will fall.

Uhtred, of course, makes the appropriate preliminary noises.  He reminds us that Alfred still has an army (which we know); that an invasion, even if successful, would be costly for us as well as for Wessex (which we know); and that the land of which we would eventually gain control would be stripped of every cow, sheep and goat, and every blade of grass and ear of grain (which we also know).  Regrettable as all these things may be, they are also inevitable.  Nevertheless, even salted fields will eventually bear again, and there will be Saxons left to work them; the great may flee, but the poor have no option but to stay and work for whoever owns them and their land, and it has never seemed to me that a moderate Danish master is any worse than a moderate Saxon one.  There will be churches, monasteries and abbeys, where treasure will have been hidden away in the happy belief that it is past discovery.  There will be towns, and markets, and trade, and all of these will be under our control.

We will be very, very wealthy.

Politely I remind Uhtred of all this, while Sigefrid grins savagely at him.

Naturally he needs no telling.  It is just part of the game.

Then, finally, he puts forward Alfred’s proposal.

And all around the hall, jaws drop.

*        *          *

As one of those who may be chiefly involved in the proceedings if King Alfred’s extraordinary proposal is accepted, I invite Uhtred courteously to wait, rest and eat and drink in safety while we consider the king’s offer, and drag my stunned brother into our private rooms to discuss it.

It is, of course, all but inevitable that when he recovers his breath Sigefrid has a great deal to say.  His store of curses is highly imaginative and usually amuses me, but today it is irritating.  As startling as the suggestion is – and there is no denying that – once the surprise is done with, it is not nearly as ridiculous as it would appear on the surface.  Silently and privately I salute the Saxon king for having the honesty to sum up his situation as accurately as he has done, and for not only having the wit to devise a possible solution but the hardihood to propose it.  I am under no illusions: we are his bitter enemies, and he is offering us an alliance sealed in the marriage-bed.

Marriage.  One of us with his eldest daughter, Æthelflaed.

Sigefrid shows no sign of ceasing to rant, so I pour ale into a horn and thrust it into his hand.  “Drink,” I advise.  “Then we will have to think what our response is to be.”

Instead of drinking, he hurls it from him.  The contents shower the floor, and the horn hits a sleeping wolfhound which yelps in hurt surprise and bolts from the room.

I sigh.  “Brother.  This will achieve nothing.”

“Thor’s balls!” he yells, spittle flying from his lips.  “To even dare suggest–”

“–That the daughter of a King of Wessex is a good enough match for a mere Viking adventurer?”

He turns on me, and for an instant I think he is going to strike me.  But at the last moment he sees the grin on my face, and his wrath turns to laughter.  He is all extremes, Sigefrid; he can turn from the West Wind to the East Wind in the blink of an eye, but in either direction we love one another.

Now that he has seen the offer in that light, he is vastly amused.  He guffaws, while I pour another drink.  This time he accepts it, chortling in between swigs.

“You think you’ll get much pleasure from humping a Saxon princess?” he asks, grinning.  Drops of ale glisten in his beard.

_“Me?”_ Once again I am genuinely surprised.  “You’re the elder.  Of course you have to marry her.”

This is even funnier.  “Me!” He roars with laughter. “You think I’ve the patience to put up with a skinny, puling Saxon for a bride?  I like my women feisty and fat!”

“You don’t have to ‘put up with her’,” I point out reasonably.  “You only have to hump her a couple of times and then when she’s in pup you can send her back to Beamfleot or wherever you want to.  You can send her back to Norway, if you like.”

He claps a heavy hand on to my shoulder.  “Erik.  For a wise man, you can be an absolute fool.

“I do not want to marry anybody.  And if I did want to marry someone, which I don’t, I would want to marry a good Danish woman with a fine spirit and a fine dowry, not an ugly Saxon cow who’ll weep every time she has to spread her legs for me.  I can get one of those anywhere, without having to marry one.”

“She may not be ugly,” I argue a little desperately, seeing the jaws of the trap closing on me; when he has his mind made up, Sigefrid is about as easy to shift as one of the stones in the great ring of them out on the windswept plain at Searobyrg. Rumour, it is true, suggests that Alfred's daughter is not unattractive, but I distrust rumour.

I do not want a wife who will regard me with fear and loathing. Sigefrid would not care, so why is he being difficult? It is not as though he already had a woman in mind.

More laughter.  “Haven’t you heard that her father’s a scarecrow and her mother has a face like a horse?”

I am not amused.  I have no desire to acquire a wife who not only loathes and fears me, but is a cross between a scarecrow and a horse; but I am beginning to suspect that Sigefrid finds the idea of saddling me with one very entertaining.  He foresees an endless store of gibes on the subject of my domestic bliss.

Still, Alfred of Wessex is not the only man who can sum up a situation, and the truth is that an alliance would be a gift to both Danes and Saxons.  We have conquered Mercia, but it was far from easy.  We lost many good men and ships, and for all that we have our eyes on Wessex we know how much this last rich morsel will cost us to take it.

As things stand, peace – even just for a few years, while we tighten our grip on what we have and rebuild our forces – would be a godsend.  Alfred’s army may be reduced and isolated, but we know that it is still a force to be reckoned with.  Even if we refrain from attacking his kingdom, it is easy to guess that he will harry our borders; and for all that I have enjoyed the excitement of raiding and conquest, if I am honest with myself I am beginning to wish for a time of peace in which to find a different kind of enjoyment.  This is a rich land, and could yield fine harvests if it were not being perennially fought over.  Back in Norway there was a pleasure in having one’s own well-filled barns to see one through the winter rather than relying on emptying someone else’s of their hard-won harvest.

It is true, I had not thought of a wife as part of that picture.  But nonetheless, even if the Saxon princess does indeed have a face like a horse and a body like a scarecrow, she may have other benefits to offer; certainly she will have a dowry, though with the long years of fighting to fund, her father’s treasury will surely be depleted, so we must be prepared to be realistic – eventually. As for her opinion of me, I am prepared to be patient and teach her I am not after all a monster in human form... And if all fails, I suppose I too could hump her till she is in pup and then send her back to Beamfleot.

I heave a sigh, and Sigefrid roars with laughter again. 

He knows when I have admitted defeat.


	5. Aethelflaed

I am out in the courtyard practising swordcraft with Steapa when the summons arrives.

It is Beocca who comes.  He looks very grave, and for once there is no smile lurking around his mouth, so that immediately I begin to wonder what I have done wrong.  Not that I am conscious of having done anything at all, but my Lady Mother is a strict mentor and can often find fault with things that I cannot help feeling are of very little account.

Steapa, too, suspects something is amiss.  He has been parrying my strokes indulgently, putting little effort and much skill into blocking every assay I make to get through his guard, but one glance at Beocca and the smile vanishes.  He lowers his own sword and steps back, and I take the opportunity to flicker in a sly prod with the point.  It digs lightly into his leather-clad belly, doing no damage because it has neither point nor edge, but instead of reprimanding me or laughing at my impertinence he merely pushes aside the blade and says evenly that I should not keep my lord father waiting.

Out of respect, however, I take time to straighten my gown and hair before I enter the room to which Beocca leads me.  My lord father knows and approves of my interest in weaponcraft, but it is a sore subject with my lady mother, who fears I am becoming a hoyden.  If I enter the room in disarray, she will certainly take the opportunity to mention that fact.

When I am at ease with my appearance being at least respectable, I nod to Beocca.  He opens the door, smiles encouragingly at me – a smile that is so strained I do not find it encouraging at all – and lets me enter without following me in.

My father and mother are seated at the table.  A chair is placed opposite them, clearly for me.

So far, nothing of this is surprising.  But what _is_ surprising is the presence of Lord Uhtred, standing beside and just to the rear of my father.  His arms are folded, but though he does not appear particularly troubled (unlike my lady mother, who I see at once is almost trembling with the effort to remain still and silent) he directs at me a searching look quite unlike any I have ever had from him before.

I dip a respectful courtesy to my lord father, and stand before him waiting to know why I have been summoned.

Strangely, he does not at first seem to know where to begin.  He points me to the chair, and I sit in it, looking uneasily from one to another.  There is a shine to my mother’s eyes that surely cannot be tears, for the grim set of her mouth suggests fury.

Finally, “Æthelflaed, you are the eldest daughter of the Royal House of Wessex.”

This is not news.  I nod dutifully.

“You have been ... raised in the knowledge that your hand in marriage would be a valuable tool to serve Wessex’s interests, when the time came,” my father resumes laboriously.  There is a parchment on the table in front of him, and he seems to find it very interesting.

“Marriage?” I echo, and my heart beats suddenly faster.  It is not that the idea is a surprise, because I am of an age where girls younger than I have already been wedded and given birth to their firstborn, but it startles me that the subject appears to have come out of nowhere.  It would ordinarily be the subject of much discussion, and although it is my duty to accept whatever husband my father chooses for me, I had thought that at least I would have known that the issue was under consideration.

Maybe we are expecting guests.  It would be usual for the prospective husband (and his father, if still living) to be invited to Wintanceaster, to conclude what can be delicate negotiations.  I can at least expect to see my putative husband, and maybe exchange a few words with him, strictly chaperoned of course.  It is hardly surprising that such a thing should be under urgent consideration now, when the tide of war is running against Wessex; doubtless my father looks to make an alliance that will bolster his army, though a swift calculation of the possibilities leaves me doubtful of whom he may be contemplating as an ally.

He expects my compliance.  He has a right to it.  I have been reared to know my duty and I will not fail in it.

“Yes, Father.”

I look at my mother.  Now it is she who is interested in the parchment.  Her hands are out of sight.  His are linked on the table in front of him, his fingers ink-smeared as always; I think that he would have been far happier as a monk, left to scribe daylong in the scriptorium in between the demands of the Holy Office.  His face is drawn, and tells me nothing.

“Are we expecting guests?” I ask, prompting for more information that should be forthcoming but strangely is not.

“Not yet,” comes the slow answer.  “But an agreement has been reached regarding your marriage.  It will be solemnised in due course, when ... arrangements have been made.”

“When a _truce_ has been arranged!” My Lady Mother can no longer contain the words.  She fairly spits them out, her eyes blazing.

But for the fact that I am seated, I would take a step backwards.  “A truce?”

My father sighs, and then squares his shoulders and finally meets my eyes.  “You can be in no doubt that matters have not gone well for Wessex,” he says quietly.  “Now we know for certain that Mercia has fallen.  We are the last ... Christian ... kingdom.

“The facts are these: we have not the men nor the arms to resist a determined push from the Danes, and a push there will be, come spring and fair weather.  We have not the wealth to buy reinforcements, nor any hope of help.

“In such circumstances, if there is any way of staving off conquest and the end of Christianity in this island, we must take it – however unpalatable it may seem at first sight.”

I know what he is trying to tell me and I cannot believe it is possible.  My tongue seems frozen to the roof of my mouth.

“Ealdorman Uhtred has acted as my emissary to the Danes in Snotanagham.  They have accepted my offer of an alliance and a peace – sealed with a marriage.”

Marriage.  _My_ marriage.

I have known all my life that I was a piece on a board, to be played for political advantage.  But never until now have I seen myself sacrificed, while opposite me this unknown Dane looms like a dark angel from the underworld.

Word ricochet in my head. 

_I cannot do this_

_I must_

_Marriage_

_Barbarian_

_Bed_

_Savagery_

_Viking_

_Marriage_

_Stranger_

_Dane_

_Violence_

_I cannot do this_

_Father, do not ask it of me_

_Father_

My voice emerges as a thin whisper.  “What is his name?”

_Dane_

_Bed_

My father glances at Uhtred, almost in appeal.

“It is Erik, my Lady,” says the warrior, his voice gentle.  “Erik Thurgilson.”

_Thurgilson_

_Savage_

_Cunning_

_Viking_

_Marriage_

_Bed_

_Thurgilson_

“How soon?” I ask.  My hands are trembling, and I link them in my lap to steady myself.  My voice, on the other hand, is passably composed, and Uhtred gives a little encouraging nod.

“My Lord King will issue them safe-conducts, and I will return to make the arrangements.  I would expect them to be here in three weeks, maybe a little less.”

“Your dowry has been agreed.” My father’s dry voice intrudes.  “They naturally expected the dowry due to a Princess of Wessex, but were prepared to be reasonable.”

_My dowry has been agreed.  I have been sold like a sow in the marketplace, to a boar of a Dane._

“It is your duty to obey your sovereign lord.”  My mother finds her voice, but by the tremble of anger in it I am unsure whether she is speaking to me or to herself.  “You will, of course, bear witness to the Lord God in the midst of the barbarians.”

_I doubt whether this Erik Thurgilson will be interested in my faith.  He will beat me, he will ravish me..._

“Yes, Lady Mother,” I reply, since a reply is clearly expected of me.

“You will doubtless wish to prepare yourself,” she says, nodding dismissal.  “We will talk before the wedding takes place, and I will tell you what you need to know.”

I think that I already know everything I need to know.  But it is not the part of a dutiful daughter to say as much, and so I nod, rise and with a respectful bob that owes much to training and almost nothing to conscious thought, I leave the room.

I had not even realised that Uhtred had followed me out until I hear his voice behind me.  “Lady Æthelflaed.”

“What?” I am too dazed and horrified for courtesy.  He has been my father’s emissary, he has negotiated to sell me into slavery to a Dane.

He does not take offence at my rudeness.  “I can understand why you are shocked and anxious,” he says gently.  “But things may not be as bad as they seem.”

I cannot help it; I laugh incredulously.  “Could they be worse?”

“Much worse.” His face is serious.  “Yes, Erik is a Viking and a warrior. But he is intelligent and honourable.  I do not believe he will ill-treat you.”

“And that is the best I can hope for?”

“In a political marriage?  Not the best, but it is much.  You could have married his brother Sigefrid, and then your case would have been immeasurably worse.”

I face him, my anger rising.  “Tell me the truth, Uhtred.  Does Lord Thurgilson wish for this match?”

His hesitation tells me everything I need to know.

“No.  He does not.  I am a Saxon burden he is buying for peace and silver.  Well, he can have my dowry and he can have my body, but I beg you, stop insulting me by pretending that this is other than a transaction!”

I leave him then. I am too angry for tears.  I even bump into Father Beocca, and do not apologise.  I have an appointment with Steapa, and I want to hear the clash of steel against steel, as befits my mood.

_Viking_

_Barbarian_

_Bed._


	6. Erik

My last night of freedom.

At least, that is the jest that passes from mouth to mouth.  By now, it is becoming more than a little stale, to me at least, but Sigefrid has yet to weary of it.  Over our evening meal at the last camp before we reach Wintanceaster, he has toasted my ‘marital happiness’ so often that I can only marvel he can still stand upright.  My only consolation is that for sure he will have such a thick head in the morning that he will be in no mood for jests; every hoof-fall of his horse will go through it like Thor’s hammer, and at least we will ride for part of the rest of the way in silence.

As well as plying me with ale, he and my escort have elected to believe that I need detailed advice of what to do when I am put to bed with my Saxon bride.  I need nothing of the sort, but this is a custom of the wedding party, and so I put up with it all with little more than an inward sigh each time Æthelflaed is compared to a virgin mare brought to the stallion.  It is not amusing, it is not even original, but every ale-flown fool thinks himself a wit.  And so I smile dutifully and sip rather than gulp my ale, and wish for the evening to end and the next day and the one after to pass, and for the hour to come where I can finally shut my eyes with all of this folly behind me.

My Saxon bride ... the thought of it is still strange.  I wonder if she can even speak a word of our language.  Alfred is said to be passionate about reading and writing, so most likely she will have been taught these skills, but what else has she learned?

Almost certainly, she has learned to fear Danes.  We can expect but a tepid welcome in Wintanceaster tomorrow, though I have no fear that Alfred’s safe-conduct will be broken. And then I will finally see the ‘cross between a scarecrow and a horse’ whom I am to marry, and she will see me.  I wonder how she will react.  Raised as a princess, who must have known all her life that someday she would marry for duty rather than for love, she will be able to school her face in public.  But later, when we are alone – how will she face me then?

The wedding will take place the day after.  There must be consultations between the Christian priests and Dagfinn, who has been placed in charge of seeing that the ceremony is legal and binding after Norse ways.  Alfred has already given notice that unless the marriage takes place in a Christian church, he will not regard it as valid.  I am more prepared to compromise, but there are things that must take place for _us_ to regard it as valid also, and through Uhtred I made it known that if I accept a Christian ceremony in a Christian church, his daughter must accept at least parts of Norse ceremony.  ‘If we are to be a bridge between our peoples, then both halves must meet in the middle,’ I told him.  Whether Uhtred used those words precisely I do not know, but the thing was agreed to.  Tomorrow is for our reception, and for talks, and for the final arrangements to be made.  The fact that it will be the first time I set eyes on my bride seems almost immaterial.

The evening wears to an end, excruciating.  Sigefrid is having trouble finding the words he wants, and when he finds them his tongue can hardly shape them.  My shoulder is sore from his hand clapping down on it as he finds some new jest, and truly I am so tired by now that I could gladly tip him into a lake to silence him if only there was one nearby.

Inevitably, my announcement that I am tired and wish to sleep flings further fuel on the fire.  I am, of course, conserving my strength for the hard work I will have nightlong in two days’ time.  Raucously laughing voices praise my wisdom, for the Saxon virgin will be expecting a Viking warrior with a ready sword.  Even Sigefrid rouses to declare that I must leave the evidence of a well-ploughed field behind me.

For all my caution, the firelit world swirls around me somewhat as I stand.  I have been expected to drink, and even sips mount up when taken to every toast.  But I know that at least I will have no more than a mild headache tomorrow, and the remainder of the distance to Wintanceaster should see me recovered enough to present my best seeming to the court of Wessex and to its King.

Most of the rest of the party remain by the fire.  Someone has a harp, and sure enough another starts up a song crude enough to set everyone laughing.  Doubtless they will sing some of the verses more loudly than others, in hope of providing me with inspiration.

Resigning myself to being serenaded until sleep takes me, I walk to my tent.  Yawning, I relieve myself behind a nearby tree – the ale again! – and duck between the flaps of my tent.

Almost onto a naked blade.

The only light in the tent comes from a single flame dancing over a small wax lamp, and at first I do not recognise the man now opposite me.  Certainly he is not a Dane; his clothing is Saxon, though the good quality of it suggests he is not poor.  Nor is he a coward.  The blade rests at the base of my throat, and I feel no tremor through it.

As I straighten up, and he moves slightly backwards so that I do not impale myself, the shifting angle of the candle flame shows me his long, dark face more clearly, and I know him.

“You are Uhtred Ragnarsson’s man.” I keep my voice low; this is between him and me.

“And you are Erik Thurgilson.” Hardly more than a formality, for he must have seen me clearly when he accompanied Uhtred to Snotangaham.

I do not need to reply, but I give a slight nod.  He has not come to kill me, or I would already be dead.  Therefore, “You are here with a message?”

He licks his dry lips, but his gaze is steady enough.  “I am not Uhtred’s man.  I am the man of Æthelflaed of Wessex.”

 _Ah_.

Just how bitterly does Æthelflaed of Wessex fear marriage to a Dane?

Enough to send her liegeman to kill him before the marriage can take place?

“I have come on my own account,” he continues, watching me along the blade.  “To tell you that my Lady is worthy of your respect.  And to ask you to treat her with kindness.”

“How a husband treats his wife is perhaps his own business and no-one else’s,” I suggest.  My saex is at my belt – here in country hostile to us for so long I would not go abroad without it – but I keep my hands relaxed and open where he can see them.

“You do not want her,” he says suddenly, with bitterness.  “This is a marriage of policy, nothing more.”

The venom in his voice startles me.  Many marriages are arranged for the advantage of the families concerned, and a Princess of Wessex cannot be surprised that she is the bargaining piece for an alliance.  I look more closely at him, and see the pain and anger in his dark eyes and tightly compressed mouth.

“You love her,” I say quietly, folding my arms.  “I am sorry for that, but you must have known the two of you could never marry.”

He pales, but his expression remains resolute.  I do not know his name, but if he had been of rank Uhtred would have introduced him to us as a courtesy.  So he would never have been considered as a suitor for Æthelflaed, and I am telling him nothing he does not know. 

“I want only for her to be valued as she deserves,” he replies, low-voiced.  “If it had been your brother, I would have killed him.”

 _You could have tried._   Even one-handed, Sigefrid is a match for many warriors.  Nevertheless, I think of him reeling into a tent as drunk as he is now, and the waiting blade piercing his throat.

“Go back to Wintanceaster,” I tell him evenly.  For the image of his sword sending my brother to Niflheim I could kill him, but he is in love, and two nights hence he will suffer as much as I or anyone could desire.

He lowers the sword. “Æthelflaed,” is all he says, but his face is suddenly haggard.

“It will be well with Æthelflaed.” I will say no more.

For a long moment he stares at me, and then steps backwards, crouches and slithers under the side of the tent, where a long enough slit has been opened to admit him.  He is a young man of some skill at woodcraft, for our sentries are vigilant, and no cry alerts the camp.

I wait to make sure he has made good his escape.  And then, drawing a long breath, I sink down onto my bed, staring at the place where my would-be assassin came and went.

Wessex is even more surprising than I had expected.


	7. Aethelflaed

My last night of freedom.

Tomorrow ... _he_ ... will arrive, and all pretence will be at an end.  _They_ will walk into my father’s Hall, with the swagger of conquerors, and be feasted as though they were our bosom friends.  They will eat our food and drink our wine, and cast covetous eyes on everything that is not theirs.

Later, my lady mother has ruled that I must spend the evening in prayer for strength to resist the Devil.  It needs no-one to tell me which particular devil she has in mind, but resisting him is hardly in my best interest.  My best hope of safety is to be compliant, and maybe that is in Father Beocca’s mind when he lectures me on the Christian duty of a wife to be obedient to her husband.  Poor Beocca!  I could almost pity him.

I wish I could spend this night alone, but my lady mother has decided it is time for me to learn what I am to expect two nights hence.  Now she sits on my bed, discomfort writ across her face, as she struggles to find some way of speaking of things not fit for the hearing of a good Christian maid.

Sometimes I wonder if she ever goes outside the palace.  We have horses, we have dogs. There are sheep and goats and cows in the fields, and pigs in the sties. All these must be bred, and for all that she has done her best to keep me properly sheltered from the sight of things she would consider unseemly, still when I pass down the streets it is hard to avoid every sight of mating dogs.  I am banned from the stables when a mare is being covered, but my father’s stallion knows no reason why he should not reveal his excitement at other times, not all of them appropriate.  More than once I have been sternly commanded not to look, the command itself directing my curiosity to what I am not supposed to see and most likely would not otherwise have noticed.

Gossip has been another fruitful source of information.  Maids find the topic inexhaustibly interesting, and I have garnered much knowledge by the simple expedient of keeping my mouth shut and pretending not to be listening.  Some of my crop is reassuring, some of it anything but; the experience of laying with a man seems to be as variously wondrous and appalling as the men themselves.  Since the announcement of my betrothal, however, the subject has suddenly dried up so completely that I know every female in the palace has been warned that the queen intends to take upon herself the task of educating her daughter in the matter of becoming breeding stock for a Danish boar, and no other need perform that grim office in her stead.

If it were not so tragic, I could laugh at the way she fidgets with her shawl, her gown, even with her crucifix.  She does not know where to begin.

Finally, however, she takes the plunge.

“You have been reared in a good Christian household,” she begins, rushing the words in her haste to get them said.  “But it has been ... your father’s decision to choose a Dane as your husband.”

She says the words _your father_ as though they tasted bad.  I doubt if she will ever forgive him for foisting a Dane into the Royal Family of Wessex.

“When the marriage has been solemnised, you will of course be man and wife.  You will be put into bed together.  Then he will...”  She trails off, quite unable to find a way to describe what my husband will do in words befitting a modest Christian woman.

“He will what, Mother?” I ask artlessly.

She discovers her thick braid, and tugs it as if it were a bell-rope.  Then, realising perhaps that the image is unfortunate, she drops it as though it had suddenly become red-hot.

“You will be his wife, Æthelflaed, and it will be your duty to let him,” she continues, miserably skirting the matter of what stallions do to mares.  “You will behave modestly and with decorum.  Lust is a most dreadful sin.”

“What is ‘lust’, Mother?”

Of course, I already know.  But in my bitterness against the world this night I am driven to find my satisfactions where I can, and her refusal to speak even a word of comfort to me is gall and wormwood.  Even if it is a lie, and we both know it, surely it would not be so great a crime to pretend for one night that all will be well; that my husband-to-be will be handsome and kind, and treat me with respect.

But no; her obsession drives her onwards.  “Lust is one of the passions of the flesh!” Suddenly she is raging, but her outward-fixed gaze tells me that her thoughts are elsewhere.  “Through it the Devil tempts men to sin, using the sinful wiles of women to inflame their carnal thoughts.  Women are the daughters of Eve, who brought sin into the world.  We must be eternally vigilant to guard against all sins of the flesh.”

At this rate, I will be safe enough from using any wiles whatsoever on Lord Thurgilson (or so I suppose I must call him).  In order to use a wile one must first know what it is, and my lady mother is so intent on impressing me that I must strain every sinew to present myself to my husband as unappealing that I find myself growing more and more sympathetic to my lord father’s illicit attraction to serving girls.  If my lady mother had spent less time abhorring the sins of the flesh and more experimenting with wiles (whatever they may be) of her own, she might then have a husband less inclined to interest in women with broader horizons.

“You must behave with modesty at all times,” she continues sternly.  “Your garments must be seemly, as befits a wife – especially those you wear to bed.  Do nothing, say nothing, that may inflame his desires or make him think you unchaste.  Offer him no temptation.”

It seems to me that my being female and available will be sufficient temptation for a Dane, but I do not say this.  As for wishing to inflame his desires, I can hardly imagine why she might think me anxious to do any such thing.

“Will – will it hurt, Mother?”

She nods grimly.  “You must pray to Saint Æthelthryth to help you endure it.”

Saint Æthelthryth had two husbands.  She must have had a life of constant agony.

The image of my father’s stallion darts into my mind, and I quail.  Sense suggests that a man will be far less spectacularly endowed, but still, the thought of having hard flesh thrust roughly into my woman’s parts makes them shrink with anticipation of the pain.

My mouth is dry at the thought of it.  Maybe it can be pleasurable when the woman consents, or even welcomes it (those conversations I have overheard certainly suggest as much), but when she is afraid, unwilling–

“Does it – does it not grow _any_ easier?  Over time?”

Her stern gaze says that she detects Eve rearing her sinful head in my thoughts.  Can I possibly be implying that at some point I am hoping to _enjoy_ my husband’s use of my body?

Still, even despite her anxious care for my immortal soul, something is owing to the truth.  Grudgingly she admits that one becomes accustomed.  Borne away on a tide of unwonted optimism, she even feels bound to own that ‘If you are obedient and meek towards him at all times, it is possible that even a Dane may come to show some consideration towards you eventually.’

Clearly, however, she repents the next moment of her outburst of cheerfulness.

“I will never forgive that young fool Æthelred!” she laments.  “Wessex and Mercia – together we could have resisted the barbarians!  And you would have a godly Christian husband rather than a hulking, tattooed pagan who will treat you like a harlot!”

I am not sure I will forgive Æthelred either, but not because I had any desire for him as a husband.  He was handsome enough, but he had a weak mouth, and was vain, and spurned wise counsel.  Well, it has cost him dearly enough: his kingdom, and most likely his life as well.  If it were not for what his folly will cost me, I might pity him.

Next moment, however, she surprises me by laying a hand on my wrist.  “Forgive your father, Æthelflaed,” she says quietly.  “He has no choice.”

I know that as well as she does, as well as Father does.  But nor do I have a choice, and that is a bitter realisation.

Forgiveness is not a single act, but a series of actions.  I do not think she asks this lightly, for she too must embark on forgiveness.  It will not be easy for her, hating the Danes as she does, but events have led us to this and we must all endure it somehow.

The talk is over.  She rises, and surprises me again by leaning to kiss my forehead; she has never been demonstrative.  “I will pray for you, Daughter.”

I bend my head.  “Thank you, Lady Mother.”

The door closes behind her. I turn back again to watch the small flames dancing among the apple-wood logs on the hearth, and I wonder what it will really be like, to marry Erik Thurgilson.


	8. Erik

Our escort meets us, as agreed, half a day’s ride from Wintanceaster.

To judge by their faces, they are but grudgingly accepting of this happy union to come.  The ealdorman in charge, Odda by name, seems hardly able to utter the traditional words of welcome without scowling – though he is old, and his scarred face seems set in a permanent frown.

Sigefrid as the eldest is responsible for responding.  Since the knife-cut of a crease between his brows suggests that his overindulgence last night is still wreaking its revenge, he is not noticeably merry either.  And if insult were needed to be added to injury, it has begun to rain.  Hard.

The formalities concluded, we ride onwards in gloomy silence, our horses’ hooves slipping and squelching in the mud.  In view of the occasion I ordered the trappings of war removed from their bridles and gear before we set out, and we groomed them as best we could, but already they are mired to their knees, their coats soaked and their manes and tails hanging lank and sodden. We have gone to some trouble this morning to dress in our best on our own account, but it is wasted effort; we will be like a pack of drowned rats by the time we reach our destination.  In view of the fact that the Saxon court will doubtless be dressed in some style to receive us, I could wish things otherwise – it will not give the best of impressions to walk into the king’s feast-hall looking as though we have been salvaged from a shipwreck. I had the fleece that I wear about my shoulders washed and brushed and scented with cedar chips, but for all the careful preparation I must look as if I am wearing a drowned sheep.

Dagfinn beside me is preoccupied.  His responsibility as the legal arbiter of the proceedings weighs heavily upon his mind.  Every now and then he slips a wet hand anxiously into the breast of his coat, checking that the agreed bride-price is still safely stowed there; it is the token payment I must hand to Alfred for the transfer of his daughter’s protection to me.  When the wedding ceremony is concluded, it is Dagfinn who will take charge of my wife’s dowry, and safeguard it.  Her morning-gift is in my saddlebags, and I put much thought into the choosing of it; I hope it will please her.

It is traditional for Norse marriages to be performed on Freyja’s day, since she is the goddess of love.  The irony of it could hardly be greater; what love will a Saxon princess feel for a Danish warlord? I guide my horse down a slippery slope to ford a stream, and reflect grimly that I would need to be as fair as Baldur to be a welcome wooer.  As it is, any claim to handsomeness my face may once have had has been lost to the business of war.  Both my face and body bear scars, and I brood on what impression I may make on my future wife.

The skies darken still further.  The mutter of thunder from the East behind us suggests that Thor shares our mood, and Sigefrid gives a sullen chuckle.  “Have you decided where you are to live?” he asks, evidently deciding that a little mischief-making is preferable to riding in silence.  “Or had you thought of living with your royal father-in-law?”

I glance sideways at him sourly.  “I can imagine how welcome I would be if I did.”

He laughs, showing his white teeth to the driving rain.  “You would be a welcome addition to their Christian ceremonies,” he gibes.  “Alfred will have you baptised, and his queen will have you neutered!”

“I am prepared to do much for my wife, but that would be an ask too far.” I smile, though with something of an effort, refusing to allow him to goad me.

“These ceremonies,” Dagfinn puts in, leaning over with a look of apprehension.  “I have heard that Christians drink the blood of children...”

“And they have doubtless heard the same of us,” I say peaceably.  “Maybe there is some holy drink with blood from a sacrifice stirred into it, and so the confusion has arisen.”  Sacrifice is a common enough theme on sacred occasions; as one of the Norse elements of the wedding I must sacrifice a pig to Freyja, beseeching her blessing on us.  In truth, the discussions to fix the arrangements had centred more on the financial side of affairs, and I have not given much thought to what I will be expected to do as part of the Christian rituals. Uhtred had been confident that they were simple enough, and certainly if he had known that they featured anything so outlandish he would have mentioned it.

“Let us hope your Princess has some meat on her bones, to make her worth humping,” Sigefrid says with a lascivious grin.

“Whether she has or has not, I will make the best of it.  I will treat her with the respect due to my wife.” This time I am hard put to keep the acid from my voice, and I raise it slightly so that I may be clearly heard.  I may not, at heart, much want this marriage, but if I am to take a woman to my hearth then she will have the status of it, whether she be a Dane or a Saxon or a Moor from distant Arabia, and no matter what her looks.

“As for where we will live,” I continue, “I have made no decision yet.  We came through some fine land near Oxenaforda – rich farming land. I think we could be happy there.”

“You would become a farmer!” My brother cannot keep the incredulous derision from his voice.

“Why not?”

“Psha!  Where is the adventure in that?”

“I am getting old, perhaps.  I begin to tire of adventures. Maybe I could find contentment in raising crops and breeding fat cattle and fine horses, and having a family about me.”

Needless to say, Sigefrid thinks but poorly of these attractions. He laughs so long and so raucously that Odda glances around suspiciously to see what the barbarians find so amusing.

“You will be bored in a month, Little Brother!” he chuckles, slapping me yet again upon the shoulder so that rainwater spatters from my drowned sheep.  “Marry your princess and get her in pup, and then leave her to the cows and the farming.  Come back to us and we will go adventuring again, and you will remember what the lift of a keel feels like underfoot when the raiding season starts.”

I need no reminding.  I have led raids with him for years, and though at first the excitement of it was almost greater reward than the booty, of late the novelty has worn thin.  I see the faces of those we rob, and the bodies of the dead, slain for trying to defend what they worked all their lives for, and slowly shame has grown on me.  If we are to rule, we must be better than monsters who come with fire and axe to rape and steal and burn.  We must ... change, somehow, if there is to be peace in this land; and it is for the offer of peace that I have agreed to marry Æthelflaed of Wessex.

“When the crops and the cattle grow tedious I shall know where to come,” I nod, making no commitment.  He would not, could not comprehend that I can envisage happiness in seeing my farm prosper, in seeing my children about their mother. It has taken me long enough to realise that this is what I want from my life, but I doubt if it will ever be what he wants from his.

Much, of course, will depend upon my marriage.  A life that holds out such promise will be but half-fulfilled if it holds at its heart a man and woman utterly unsuited to one another.  True, a Saxon and a Dane are unsuited enough to begin with, but it is beyond belief that a Saxon woman wants other from her husband than a Danish one does: kindness, consideration, respect, in bed and out of it.  All these I am prepared to offer my bride.  We will not love one another at first, but marriages are not founded on love; if the gods are kind, and both parties are prepared to give and take, it may grow even in such unpromising soil as ours.  Or at least so I hope.

The horses struggle up yet another slope.  The wind whips at us as we finally crest it, the cold rain slapping our faces viciously as though even it resents our presence here, but old Odda pulls his mount to a halt and gestures.

Across the valley, its details dim as the sullen day ebbs towards evening, a walled town sprawls out.  Though not as formidable as Eoforwic, perhaps, it is strong enough. And somewhere in the middle of it waits the woman who tomorrow will become my wife.

Æthelflaed.


	9. Aethelflaed

“They are here!”

The messenger’s blurted words fall into an icy pool of dread within me, and freeze it completely.

All morning I have been kept about small, meaningless tasks by my lady mother, doubtless in the hope that they would occupy my mind.  Like all of my family and many of the court, I am wearing new, clean, fine clothing to impress the visitors; my over-tunic is lying ready, the last item to be donned, and I pull it on with hands that I am surprised are steady. On a ribbon about my neck I am wearing a crucifix – my mother has given this to me and bidden me wear it, a defiant statement to the tattooed barbarian who has come to claim me.

“Come, my dear.” She lays down her embroidery and helps me into the tunic.  My hair is already brushed river-smooth, but she takes the brush from the waiting maid’s hand and strokes it down the length of it on my back.  Last of all she places around my brow a narrow circlet of finely-worked Welsh gold, a reminder to the pagans of my royal blood.

Then we walk, just the few steps to the room where my father, with Edward and the Witan, are assembled to receive our ‘guests’.  As my mother steps to her place and I to mine, beside Edward, it feels utterly unreal, as though all this is happening to someone else altogether: some other Æthelflaed, being placed on the auction block for viewing with the sale already agreed.

O Lord God!  I could wish it was, save that that would be the sin of selfishness, wishing some other to suffer in my stead.

The doors at the far end of the room open.  There was thunder this morning, and it would be a fit sign of God’s wrath if a clap of it heralded the arrival of the pagans come out of the gathering gloom outside; but there is no sound but the soft indrawn breaths at seeing the Enemy up close at last, and the rustle of linen and cotton as necks crane for a better view – all overlaid with the sound of heavy booted feet as the pagans, with Uhtred and Odda flanking the foremost, advance to confront my father.

They are hulking and savage, tattooed and scarred.  They are soaked from head to foot, but that hardly detracts a jot from their air of menace; and the man who strides at their head is the worst of all.

My worst fears are realised.  He is huge, brutish, black of hair and beard. One hand has been severed; the stump is wrapped with black leather strapping. His deep-set dark eyes flicker over me with amused contempt, summing me up and making of me little enough.

_O Lady Mary, give me the strength to bear this...!_

Under cover of our closeness, Edwards’s hand slips comfortingly into mine and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

Through the buzzing in my ears I hear Uhtred’s voice.  I can scarcely make sense of the words:

“My Lord King, I present to you Sigefrid Thurgilson...”

_...Sigefrid...?_

“... and his brother Erik.”

Another man steps forward.  I have hardly noticed him, though he was close at the other’s side, and rendered insignificant thereby.

My mind is in such tumult that at first I can barely even register what he looks like.  All my heart and soul is so singing with the magnitude of my reprieve that I would care not if he were blind and lame and palsied and ugly as an old boot.

But he is whole of body, and not ... not ugly, as his brother is ugly, though they share the same deep-set, dark-painted eyes.  His hair and beard are fair, and he bears no visible tattoos, nor significant,  unsightly scars; and even as I find his gaze I realise that it is already fixed on me, and his mouth quirks in a tiny, hesitant smile.

Colour scorches my face.  It has naught to do with lustful thoughts, however, and much to do with the confusion that seizes me.  He smiled, as though hopeful of ... what? Receiving a smile in return?  Conveying reassurance?  Hastily, dreading that he may think me forward, I drop my eyes floorward.  For the beating of my heart I can scarcely hear the formalities that follow; now that I know myself safe from him, I can even listen to Sigefrid’s booming voice without any emotion save relief.

Then Erik is called upon to speak, and I glance upward, my breath held. He stands before my lord father without fear, but without arrogance.  He speaks confidently, accepting the offer of both my hand and a peace treaty, and proffering the hope that the cessation of hostilities shall be of benefit to both our peoples.

“It is our hope too,” says my father gravely.  “You have travelled far, and must be weary.  Rooms have been prepared for you to rest before the evening meal.

“We have been informed by Ealdorman Uhtred that there are various preparations your faith requires to be made before the wedding can take place tomorrow.  If there is anything you need, please make your wishes known.”

“You are gracious, my Lord King.  We thank you.”

Sigefrid rumbles something, sounding far less gracious, and the party turns and walks from the room.  There is a respectful silence until the door closes, and then a collective sigh of relief and wonder.  The Danes have arrived, and thus far the peace seems to be desired by all.  Many, I know, were dubious of whether this might all be some devious trick for the enemy to make an entry into Wintanceaster and launch an attack from within, but it now appears at least possible that their desire for peace is genuine.

My mother is the first to speak.  “Filthy barbarians!” she spits.

Edward looks down at me and gives me the suspicion of a wink.  “Not so bad after all, though, little sister?” he whispers.

I make no answer. My mind is in a whirl, and I need quietness in which to compose my thoughts.

“They are our guests,” my father says sternly.  “As such, it is our Christian duty to welcome them and treat them with respect.” Even as he speaks, he looks across at me, and beneath the gravity of a king I read the concern of a father; I have seen my future husband, and how do I seem?

I should smile, but I feel overwhelmed by too much emotion.  If it had been Sigefrid and not Erik to whom I had been promised, that promise would have been carried out, regardless of my feelings on the matter.  Every beat of my heart thanks the Lord God of Heaven that it is not the older brother to whom I shall be handfast on the morrow, but still I fear to pin too much faith on a turn of fortune that seems too much to hope for.  For all his outer seeming, still this is a Dane and a Viking, and his cunning is widely famed; he might think it a matter for great amusement to hide his true nature until the doors are closed behind us and I am finally his to do with as he will.

“Come, Daughter.”  The queen seizes me by the arm and fairly drags me from the room, as though fearing that paganism may be some infection akin to the plague and we are all in danger of contracting it.  “We must pray tonight for your immortal soul. I will have Beocca say an extra Mass, and you will of course be excused attending the feast.”

As we hurry towards the chapel as though in search of absolution for breathing the same air as those murdering Danes, the blasphemous thought crosses my mind that if it was Sigefrid to whom I was to be wedded, it would require more than a Holy Mass to save me.  Hard upon this comes another, as hope, unbidden, raises its treacherous head: that mayhap being subjected to the base lusts of a Dane may not, after all, be quite such an ordeal as I had feared.

A hasty review of the canon of the saints reveals no saint to whom it would be even remotely appropriate to pray that my wedding night may feature anything approximating to joy, but even so for the first time I recall with something other than misery the whispers of my companions of the pleasures of the marriage-bed.  It has been preached often enough that it is the duty of a good Christian to marry rather than to burn, but suddenly a finger of light has pried through the unbroken gloom of my future.  It is thin enough, but more than I ever expected to find, and it dawned in the exact moment I saw the unexpected sight of Erik Thurgilson’s smile.


	10. Uhtred

Well, thanks be to the Gods, we have got thus far without bloodshed.

The quarters assigned to the visitors were deemed adequate, and the feast was got through somehow without violence breaking out – small thanks to Sigefrid, who began it offensively cheerful and then became sullen and quarrelsome.  Fortunately Erik intervened whenever the situation seemed likely to get out of hand, and Alfred forebore to take offence.  Lucky indeed it was that his queen had excused both herself and Æthelflaed from the occasion, as she would have crossed the hall and struck Sigefrid in the mouth before half an hour was past.

A halt was called at an early hour, as both parties were to be up early betimes.  I had my own men keep watch around the palace overnight as well as the discreet presence of his own men that Alfred had ordered (for which Steapa was not as grateful as he should have been), but the sun is rising in a bank of mist on the distant horizon, and the place is shaking itself to life like a sleeping dog, ready to wag its tail in anticipation of a treat to come.

Before the wedding can take place, Norse tradition dictates that the bride and groom shall be ceremonially washed.  As Æthelflaed is Saxon I imagine that this will not apply to her, but Erik will not neglect any part of the tradition.  Already a wooden tub is standing ready in a corner of the courtyard, stared at dubiously by passers-by, and pails of water have been fetched.  For a maid I imagine the water would be scented and heated, but Erik is strong enough to bear a little drenching in cold water, and the soap set by will be enough to make him sweet-smelling for his bride.

We have already vexed the gardeners by disturbing the rose-beds – another tradition dictates that Erik must dig up a sword of his ancestors from ‘a grave’.  There being no grave to hand here, nor any likelihood of one of his ancestors’ swords being in it if there were, he has brought one with him, and the custom is to bury it in any readily available ground.  Here it is handily placed so he can retrieve it and then both he and the sword will be washed, an economy of effort that everyone but the gardeners regards as perfectly sensible.

Just as I select a corner to piss in before I go back to Gisela to be prinked and tidied for my part in the day’s events (a small enough one, thank the Gods), a nearby door opens and the bridegroom-to-be himself emerges, blinking and yawning and evidently in search of the very same thing.  We companionably water a clump of heartsease, and he heaves a sigh of relief – or maybe more than relief, for he eyes the tub and heaves another, even deeper sigh.  “I wish this were all over,” he mutters.

“What, you want to miss your wedding?” I tease.  “You are not having second thoughts, are you?”

He does not smile.  “Uhtred, she is afraid. Last night, I thought she was about to faint.  Is it the thought of marriage that scares her, or is it marriage to me?”

His earnestness confirms me in my liking for him, but this is not something that can be allowed to come between the fate of kingdoms.  “Æthelflaed is stronger than she looks,” I tell him robustly.  “And if you want the truth, I think she thought Sigefrid was the man she was to marry.  That prospect would frighten a Valkyrie!”

This is no more than the truth.  Her face as she gazed at the older brother the night before was the colour of new snow, but when it moved to the younger it became suddenly the colour of apple-blossom.

He laughs a little at that, but he takes comfort in it.  Not enough, though, it seems, for next moment, “Do you think she would go through with this, if she had the choice?”

“She _has_ no choice.” It is no other than the truth, and in his heart of hearts he already knows it.  “And nor do you.  So all that both of you can do is make the best of it.” I push my fist lightly against his cheek, as though he were my brother Ragnar – and indeed, the thought that had the Norns ordained otherwise he might by now have been my brother-in-arms grieves me for the loss.  “I told you, she could have done far worse.  She could have been saddled with Sigefrid.”

He loves his brother.  His fist in my ribs is not quite playful, but not hard enough to leave a bruise, and I leave him smiling.  He and the others must break their fast, and I will have time enough to do the same before I return for the beginning of the day’s events.


	11. Erik

The sow dies noisily, for all that I have cut its throat cleanly; it is a marvel to me how a beast can squeal so loudly with its last breath.  At any rate, Freyja has had her sacrifice, and the Norse side of the preparations is concluded. 

The King and several of his nobles have watched all that has happened, and one of his scribes is busily scribbling on a parchment – Uhtred tells me that this is a king who will have everything written down, so that those who come after us will know the truth of events.  It occurs to me that there are more sides to a truth than those written down by one party in a war, but since Danes are not given to writing histories, it will be Alfred’s side that triumphs.

Needless to say, the Saxons took no part in the bathing, nor in the cheerful, rowdy banter that accompanied it.  If I had been in any doubt as to what I am supposed to do when Æthelflaed and I are alone as man and wife, that ignorance would now be at an end.  I suspect that Alfred was not in the slightest amused by any of it that he understood, and his face is grim with endurance of our barbarous ways as he sweeps into the palace to be ahead of us when we enter.

The Christian side of the ceremony must take place in the room they call a chapel.  I am probably not the only one to feel a little uneasy as we enter, but I have been in churches before and their god has not struck me down for my part in removing whatever treasure they contained.  No doubt some among my fellows are eyeing the fine gold crucifix on the altar with greed, but the truce has been enforced with strong oaths and I would be the first to put a sword through any who broke it.

With Sigefrid on one side and Uhtred on the other, I take up my station in front of King Alfred, his glowering queen and a stout priest who I understand is called a bishop.  He is the one who will perform the Christian spells that make the marriage a true one in their eyes, though as he stares at me he could hardly look more disgusted if someone had carried in a midden and dumped it at his feet.

I am not interested in whether the bishop approves of me or not.   We must have this peace, and he must mutter his spells and placate the King and the Christians’ god (probably in that order), and marry me to Æthelflaed; and as long as he is prepared to do that, he can look at me as he likes.  Though he suddenly drops his gaze, which makes me suspect that he has caught Sigefrid glaring at him – and that is never a comfortable experience for anyone who wants to live to old age.

The crowd settles and falls silent.  We wait for perhaps a minute, and then there is a stir and murmur, and I turn my head.

Æthelflaed is walking up the gap left between the benches, and though she is attended by several pretty girls of about the same age, she is far and above the most beautiful.  Instead of the gold circlet about her brows she wears a coronal of flowers, and more have been bound about her wrists, lending a feminine beauty to the ancestral sword she carries point-down before her – she must accept mine and I must accept hers, as tokens of my protection of her and her acceptance of my estate.

She comes to a halt opposite me.  Now, just for a moment, she holds my gaze, hers shyly hopeful as that of a foal.  I smile at her, and she blushes and looks at the bishop, whose face has taken on an expression between fatuous admiration and pity.

The exchange of swords is accomplished without accident (they are both real weapons, and sharp), and then the bishop bids me take her extended hand. 

This is the first time I have touched her.  Her hand is mine feels absurdly small, but it is steady and warm.

The bishop mutters words.  I am not listening, nor do I pay much attention to the strip of fine embroidered cloth he binds loosely around our wrists.  I am looking at Æthelflaed’s eyelashes, which lie on very rosy, flawless cheeks.  She does not look afraid now; she is a king’s daughter, and upholds her dignity splendidly.  Her palm is a little moist, but no more than nerves would account for.  Nevertheless I am a stranger, and a Dane, and she does not know me.  I must be patient; just like a fine young horse, a bride must be handled with kindness and gentleness until my hand on her becomes familiar.

Still, she is very beautiful, and suddenly I am far less reluctant for this marriage.  It is no longer simply King Alfred’s daughter who stands beside me, but a lovely young woman crowned with flowers, Freyja herself come to earth.

“..man and wife.”

... _wife._

Dagfinn on my side and Edward on hers proffer the hilts of the exchanged swords. Rings are balancing on these, and with hands that are suddenly ridiculously clumsy as well as made awkward by the bishop’s cloth about our wrists, I pick up hers and slide it onto her finger.  She does the same for me, and seems to do so with far less fumbling.

... _husband._

In both Norse and Christian eyes, the deed is done.  I lift my wife’s chin with my forefinger and finally, carefully, plant the lightest of kisses on her lips.

... _wife._

_...soon._

_...bed._

-%-<@

But I soon realise that the deed is only half-done.

We endure another feast, even lengthier than the last, at which I am seated beside Queen Ælswith, who scarcely opens her mouth to me from the start to the finish of it. Æthelflaed is seated beside her father, and the presence of these two on either side effectively seals our tongues from anything but the most commonplace observations.  So on the whole, on our part at least, it is a silent meal, though we share a platter and I select for her the choicest portions of whatever food we are offered.

Uhtred has given me guidance on courteous table manners among the Saxons.  It is, of course, far more formal than any Danish feast would be, especially at the high table where the bride and groom are seated.  Sigefrid as the brother of the groom is seated at the nearest end of the side table to my left, and by and large behaves himself; though I know that the formality irks him, the food and wine are good and plentiful, and he has sworn to me privately that unless deliberately provoked, he will do nothing to mar my wedding day.

I am careful to eat and drink very sparingly, so that there shall be no accusation of gluttony and drunkenness – both of which are (justifiably) levelled at Danes.  I am aware that the queen measures my every mouthful from my cup as though only waiting for the moment when the ravening beast that I am is so inflamed by the honey-mead in it that I throw my bride across the table and ravish her in the sight of all.

Still, her expectations are doomed to disappointment.  I somehow contrive to control my savagery, and speak quietly and courteously to my new wife, asking whether she is comfortable, and whether there is anything more she would like that I may have brought to her.  She answers just as quietly, thanking me for my care, but she looks up at me only rarely; and when she does I see her eyes are the most fascinating colour, green with jewelled flecks of brown and grey, like pebbles on the bed of a clear, shallow stream.  Beautiful.

So much for the cross between a scarecrow and a horse.  For all that Sigefrid is not too jealous of my good fortune (she being far more slender than the women he lusts after in general), a blind man could not miss her loveliness; and soon it will be all mine.

The feast seems to last for hours without end, but when finally the shout goes up that it is time to escort the bride and groom to their marriage-bed, it seems to have passed in a flash.  I see Æthelflaed swallow, and my heart contracts with pity for her; what will they have told her she will have to endure at the hands of a tattooed barbarian who cares only for his own pleasure?

Once the shout has gone up, there is no hushing it.  Accompanied by a grim-faced king and queen, we are led away to a chamber that has been prepared.  The bed in it is heaped with furs, a fire burning in the hearth, and once more the glum bishop is pressed into service as he utters more Christian spells over the bed and then departs in haste, doubtless fearing that the ungodly bridegroom will be in so much haste to begin rutting that he will begin even before the guests are out of the room.

There are two antechambers.  I am taken into one by the members of my own party, and amid yet more advice that I do not need, I am stripped and helped into a plain linen tunic.  Æthelflaed will be being similarly prepared, and I can only hope that the counsel she is receiving will consist of more than the necessity to lie still in terror while I brutalise her body.

When we are both ready, we are escorted back into the bedchamber and put into bed side by side.  King Alfred’s face is a mask of grim resolve, but his eyes are tortured with fear for his daughter.  As for Queen Ælswith, if looks could render a man impotent then Æthelflaed would live and die a virgin – a fate that I hope to spare her if it can at all be contrived.

With jests and good wishes, the wedding party finally takes itself out of the room. 

The door, however, is not quite closed.  The marriage is not utterly finalised until a witness for either side is prepared to testify that it has been consummated.  Dagfinn and, most likely, Odda, will be waiting outside for the appropriate sounds.

I lie back and stare in despair at the ceiling, while beside me my wife lies like a carved image, not daring to make a sound.  What have they told her, to make her so afraid of me?

How can I do this, when it must confirm all she fears?

I am not inexperienced with women.  But I have never before had to coax a frightened virgin into believing that I am not going to hurt her, except as I must, and that first necessary act I will make as painless as it possibly can be.

It is not that I do not want her.  I emphatically do; the fine linen gown with the white cords tied at the neck hinted at a beauty of body that any man would want to see, to enjoy, to possess.  My whole body’s awareness is centred on the ache of desire in my groin.  But maybe it will be a kindness to wait, just for a while – a few days, maybe – until she and I know each other a little better; when she no longer fears she is married to a monster.  When she will no longer flinch from my touch like a tethered, terrified horse fearing a brutal rider.

I turn my head on the pillow.  Her face is in profile, and she really is most beautiful.  I long to see her rigid mouth loose with passion, hear her voice slurring mine as I ride her.  But whatever misery it will cost me, I cannot bring myself to lift her gown and claim her so that the witnesses may walk away satisfied.  I will have to start my married life with a deception.

“Æthelflaed,” I say softly.

“My lord.”

She is waiting for my order to lift her gown and part her legs for me.  She is waiting for the brutality to begin.  My heart turns in my breast, sickened.

“Do you trust me?” _Folly._ What other can she possibly answer but ‘Yes’?

“Yes, my lord.” It is carefully guarded, but do I detect the faintest hint of ... something other than obedient compliance?

“Then follow my lead.”

I give her hardly time to prepare before I roll on top of her.  Her stifled squeal will sound genuine enough, and after all, why should I wait?

She is soft beneath me, and scented, and available.  _Freyja..._

“Cry out,” I whisper in her ear.

She is quick to understand what I am asking.  The small sound of pain will sound genuine enough, and I add to it the grunts that will signify I am taking what is mine to take.  I move on her, so that anyone peeping in may see what they expect to see, and I come to my ‘release’ as hastily as realism allows.

The door closes with a small click.  The witnesses are satisfied the bargain is complete.

Aroused, unsatisfied, furious with fate and the world in general, I roll off her again.  The feeling of her body under mine excited me almost beyond endurance with its promise, but I have made my bargain with the Norns: somehow I will have to wait, until we are less than strangers and free from the prying ears and eyes of witnesses.

One final seal is required to the bargain.  I slip from the bed and move to the table where food and drink have been set ready, fuel for a busy night – I could laugh at that, however bitterly.  Still, there is a knife ready, and I return with it to the bed.  If I were not so exasperated by the situation, I could laugh still more at my wife’s expression; does she think I am going to stab her where she lies?

I throw back the furs, trying not to see that her gown has been rumpled up by my husbandly efforts of moments before, and now reveals an alluring expanse of naked thigh. Just inside my left elbow I have a small, all-but-healed wound, where a Saxon sword slipped through my guard some weeks ago, and with an inward sigh of resignation I slip the point of the knife into the deepest part and open it up again – just enough to allow a little blood to flow that I wipe onto the clean linen sheet.  I will not have my wife shamed next morning, whatever has or has not passed between us.

She has still said nothing.  She watches me with a mixture of confusion and incredulity as I return the knife to the table, staunch the few remaining drops of blood from my wound and take a gulp of our wedding-mead before bringing the goblet back to the bed and offering it to her.

“We are strangers to one another, Æthelflaed,” I say quietly as she takes an obedient sip, her beautiful eyes large and bewildered over the rim.  “It is not that I do not desire you; any man with eyes in his head would desire you. But I am willing to wait until we know one another a little better, and you have learned to believe that even a Dane can be a kind husband.

“And one other thing,” I add.  “My name is Erik.”

Then I blow out the candle, lie back under the mounded furs, and lie staring at the ceiling, my new wife beside me and my body feeling as though it is one solid ache of unsatisfied desire.

_All-Father, lend me the strength to endure this night._


	12. Aethelflaed

The extinguishing of the candle plunges the room into an initial darkness, but as my eyes adjust – helped by the small, cosy flames of the fire in the hearth – the details of it come slowly out on my sight.

Not that I am interested in the room, nor in its luxurious fittings, far better than those of my own.  My whole attention is centred on the man lying beside me, and my mind is in such a tumult that I cannot imagine ever being able to bring it into order.

I am married and – not married. I have got up my courage to endure what I must, and have been forced to endure nothing.  And for all that a part of me sensibly urges me to be thankful for my narrow escape, somehow that ‘nothing’ that I have endured is the most galling part of all.

I am a Princess of Wessex.  Does he think me so feeble that I must be spared what any other maid of any other station must endure? Does he think me lacking in the courage to bear it?

No.  This is kindness in him, I am sure of it.  Misguided kindness maybe, but more than I had ever looked to see from a Dane.  It gives me hope for the future, but the present is what concerns me now.

He wanted me.  For those few moments when his body was on top of mine, I had proof beyond doubting of that.  And for all that at the time I inwardly shrank in fear of what was surely about to happen, and with a suddenness and violence that made my mother’s warnings more than justified, still the sinful Eve in me welcomed the weight of him, the pressure against my most private places.  My breasts tingled at the thought of him uncovering them, kissing them, which he would surely do once his initial lust had been satisfied...

These are unholy, carnal thoughts.  In the dimness my face burns with shame. But surely a man is supposed to be interested in his bride’s body, and to want to see and touch her nakedness?  And if he is gentle, and maybe even skilled, surely it is not sinful for her to enjoy it?

He is not asleep.  His breathing tells me that.  It is strange to lie in a bed with another person. And even though he keeps his distance from me as though a sword were laid between us, the smallest shift of his body moves the covers.  This reminds me, as if I had needed reminding, that my nipples are hard with the memory of his body on mine.  And though it is hidden from any friction with fur or linen, there is an unsatisfied ache between my thighs that will not be ignored; despite whatever pain might be involved, it is waiting.

I am wicked, to rage at my husband’s patience and forbearance.  I should be down on my knees thanking God for a husband who is prepared to wait until we know each other better.  And for sure I should do penance for the sin of unchastity, because my mind and body are flooded with unslaked desire, and my l– _Erik_ has given me a gift beyond price that I want nothing more than to hurl in his face.

Something must be done.

But what?

Lying in the semi-darkness beside a husband who is no more asleep than I am (or either of us is ever likely to be), I cast about frantically in my mind for a solution to the problem.  My tongue will not shape the words to tell him that his kindness, however welcome, is also utterly _un_ welcome.  A wife’s duty is to be obedient to her husband, and if he has made this decision and means to abide by it, it is his to take.  But if perhaps I can assay to undermine his determination to keep it...

I move a little, restlessly, and throw off one of the covers.  And then another.

He turns over, his back to me.  His face is now towards the fire, and I seize my opportunity.

I slip from the covers and walk soundlessly towards the hearth.  He is asleep, and I fear to wake him, but the covers are hot and the room is stifling.

My heart in my throat, I kneel on the sheepskin rug beside the fire and pull my gown over my head.  I have chosen my angle carefully, so that from the bed the rosy fire-glow cups my naked breasts and the hard point of each, and shadow pools between my thighs. And then I join my hands across my belly, and I wait.

The silence from the bed is deafening.  Maybe he, is, after all, asleep...

But he is not.

“Æthelflaed.”

I turn my face towards him, innocent beneath its coronet of flowers.

“Wife.  I am but a man.  Do not show me what I cannot have.”

I rise then; his voice of hard-held endurance has told me what I need to know.

I do not put on my gown.  And as I walk back to the bed – to his side of it this time – he sits up and strips off his own gown, revealing a male body that both frightens and excites me. As he swings to sit on the side of the bed, gesturing me to sit astride him, I know with fear and triumph that this will be a true wedding night after all.

He cups my face and kisses me – gently at first, and then with growing passion, so that I whimper with eagerness for more.  As his tongue explores my mouth, his hands slip downward, caressing my naked curves and waking them to pleasure.  His lips soon follow.

His mouth is as skilled on my breasts as I dreamed as his hands fondle and delve, opening me.  I am already excited, and his stroking fingers preparing the way for the erection I can already feel pressing against me are arousing beyond belief.

He is ready.  I am ready.  The world holds its breath.

_“Erik–!”_

-%-<@

The first light of dawn is stealing into the chamber.

Erik is sleeping.  The candle on the table beside him is burning low, but its light was more than enough to illuminate our joy through the night.  Now I lie beside him, my head pillowed on his chest, and my body and heart at peace.  Temporarily, at least.

Mother was wrong.  There can be nothing wrong or sinful between a man and wife where both of them are happy, and I have learned so much already of what pleases a man. In the years to come, I hope both of us will learn more of how to delight each other – much more.

Now when we are at peace I can finally appreciate the kindness of his offer. For sure I have had ample proof since of how much he held back for my sake.  My kind, foolish, Danish husband...

 _Husband._ I whisper the word.  It is shorn of its terrors now.  It is only another word for adventure.

For all his exertions, he hears me.  In daylight his eyes are impossibly blue, but in the candlelight they are dark pools, sleepily inquisitive.

“Wife?”

There is still a little honey-mead left in the cup beside the bed.  I lean up and go to drink from it, but my hand is unaccountably clumsy; the liquid spills from it, dripping down my breasts.  Erik watches its progress with speculative eyes.

He takes the cup from me firmly.  There is just enough left to go a little further.

“Wanton,” he whispers, pressing me down among the furs so that the mead will reach my most precious places.

That most damning of words is now the most secret and loving of endearments between us.  As I spread myself, moaning, for him to pleasure me, I know that for Erik alone I will always be a wanton.  And that he will treasure me and protect me and treat me with loving kindness, and that we have a future that we can both cherish.

_Till death us do part._

 

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews make me extremely happy. If you've enjoyed this, please leave one! :D


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